


The Good Girl

by daystarsearcher



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Closeted Character, F/F, Multi, Rape Fantasy, Threesome - F/F/F, sexuality meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daystarsearcher/pseuds/daystarsearcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just possible that Osgood has internalized some unhealthy ideas about sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Who is the property of the BBC.
> 
> Warning: contains rape fantasies, which the viewpoint character is aware are problematic.

All the time they were growing up, Osgood’s sister Chloe was the pretty girl. She was also the athletic girl, and the artistic girl, and the musical girl; she was the charming and vivacious girl, the daring and brave girl, and even and most unfairly—because she didn’t care, because she turned down a full ride to M.I.T. when she was fifteen so she could stay with her friends, because she _had_ friends, so many friends—she was the smart girl. The genius, the one for whom everything came effortlessly, the one who took for granted all the love and attention showered upon her like suns that shown only for her benefit.

She was planned, and she was named Chloe, a word meaning green growing things, and fresh hope.

Her little sister was a surprise, and their parents were older, more distant, too tired to do more than pluck a name off a recently deceased great-aunt. So she was named Petronella.

And by the time Petronella Osgood was born, there was only one superlative left for her:

She was the good girl.

#

Petronella might not have been able to play the flute or run a ten minute mile or get Valentines from sixteen different older boys, but she could be the good girl. She had to be.

“She studies for hours every day,” her mother would say. “Up in the room the second she’s back from chess club, busy little bee.” 

She got top marks, and tried not to feel cheated when Chloe, who often finished her homework while gossiping about boys on the telephone, and who never studied, got even better ones.

“Thank goodness you’re not smoking those things too,” her father would say when Chloe came trailing in at one in the morning, cigarette in hand and a careless laugh in her voice. And Petronella would try to feel like this was an accomplishment, even though her asthma would never have permitted such a vice in the first place.

…even though her father’s voice betrayed a fondness for Chloe’s rebellion; Chloe who was off doing proper teenager things while Petronella stayed at home studying and stealing guilty breaks to watch Star Trek.

“I never have to worry about her sneaking out for a beer or a boy,” her mother would say to her friends when they were over for tea. “Chloe, oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble she’s given me—you remember that Troy Liu?—” sympathetic clucks all around—“but Petronella’s either got her head in a book, or she blushes if a boy says as much as two words to her. She’s our good girl.”

The words drifted up through the kitchen ceiling to Petronella’s room, and she tried to feel like this was a virtue, that there wasn’t another glaring reason she didn’t find the company of boys compelling.

She tried so hard. That was what it meant to be the good girl.

#

You cannot be the good girl and be gay.

Petronella Osgood knew this like she knew her own name.

Not that there was anything wrong with being gay. But it was a revelation, and a conversation, and a thousand negotiations and misunderstandings and compromises and ultimatums and awkwardnesses, and it was nothing that a good girl would put her parents through. 

You could not put your parents through that. They were counting on you to be the one with the simple, uncomplicated life.

Petronella had to be the good girl.

It was all she had.

#

Osgood—she was calling herself Osgood now, because she couldn’t make her first name fit onto herself anymore, like a party dress she’d worn when she was five but that she couldn’t throw out completely because her family loved it—stared up at the ceiling while she lost her virginity to the boy from her advanced organic chemistry course, because he’d propositioned her, because her parents kept asking when she was going to bring someone home, because suddenly somehow purity wasn’t the gateway condition for being the good girl anymore. And she thought, _This isn’t going to work._

She kept trying for another three years anyway. She didn’t know who she would be if she stopped.

#

Osgood was usually good at discerning patterns.

She didn’t feel like she could take credit for it, since that’s what obsessive brains did, well, obsessively, quite often even when there weren’t patterns there in the first place—though at least there was one upside to the way her brain turned things over and over and over without rest, one end result that wasn’t lying curled on the bathroom floor with your inhaler trying to have the quietest panic/asthma attack possible because it was Christmas and you couldn’t ruin Christmas for your family, they didn’t deserve all your problems, god, why did you have to ruin everything—

Osgood was usually good at discerning patterns. 

But patterns were more difficult to isolate and identify when you were denying that the raw materials they would be constructed from could even exist. So it was a long time before Osgood noticed that she even had crushes, and longer still before she noticed a distinct type—Captain Janeway, Laura Roslin, Cat Grant.

Kate Stewart.

It longer still before she began to understand why.

They were all authority figures. And authority figures were safe in two ways:

In the real world, authority figures were safe because however much you fantasized, it was never going to happen.

In fantasy, authority figures were safe because they took control.

If you are not the one in control, nothing can be your fault.

And if you punish yourself for getting what you want, you can nearly absolve yourself for wanting it in the first place.

#

Because Osgood is Osgood, she has a multi-part disclaimer that she must mentally recite to herself before she can have a wank. __

_1\. The following is a work of fiction; any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental._

_2\. This work of fiction is created solely for my own enjoyment, where ‘enjoyment’ is defined as a state of arousal leading to an orgasm. It does not reflect an accurate view of reality, nor is it intended to._

_3\. The simulation of events and actions does not reflect a belief that said events and actions will take place, that said events and actions should take place, or that any relevant parties would want, enjoy, or cause said events and actions to come about._

_4\. The creator of this work does not condone sexual harassment, coercion, or rape. These are literary devices employed in a work of fiction._

_5\. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this._

It just about numbs the guilt.

#

_She’s finally given in to one of Kate’s invitations to a work function, and the champagne’s gone straight to her head. She’s light-headed, dizzy, too warm, and Kate has offered to help her find a place to lie down—and Kate’s arm is sliding around her waist, Kate’s lips are brushing against her ear, Kate’s pressing her up against the wall of the coatroom, her hands greedy and a predatory gleam in her eyes and before Osgood can protest her mouth is on hers, hungry and demanding and hot, strong hands gripping her shoulders and holding her in place even as she squirms—and her movements bump her against Kate’s firm body, those soft breasts, those slender hips…she’s pinned in place, helpless as Kate hums in hedonistic satisfaction, her hands sliding under the hem of Osgood’s jumper, nails trailing lazily across a breast before she pinches a nipple and oh, the shock of it, an electric jolt, and Osgood whimpers against her commander’s lips, her thighs clenching tight at the warmth pooling between them, she doesn’t want it oh god it feels so good, Kate’s teeth in a punishing bite to the sensitive skin of her neck as she moans, her hips jerking against the other woman, Kate’s hand between them pressing hard against her trousers and her briefs are already soaked, she doesn’t want it, she can’t escape, doesn’t want it but it feels so good, she doesn’t want it, doesn’t want--_

She knows exactly how betrayed and hurt Kate would be at the role Osgood has cast her in, not because of the sex—it’s an open secret that Kate had a fling with Sarah Jane Smith in what she dryly refers to her as her “misspent youth”—but because of the coercion. Kate with her stern personal code and her ramrod-straight honor, Kate who is always so careful and conscientious with all her staff, who has worked so hard to make U.N.I.T. a safe and comfortable place for everyone who works under her, who would never dream of doing anything remotely compromising or improper, let alone of taking advantage in any way of the people who are her responsibility, who are under her protection, who are—

_\--working late and she’s just putting the final touches on the computer simulation when Kate’s hands settle on her shoulders; she jumps as those strong fingers begin to knead at the tense muscles of her back and neck, catches a glimpse in the computer screen of Kate’s reflection, her tongue flicking out over her lips as she lets out a satisfied sigh, a cat with its prey in its claws, and Osgood squirms in her chair, and Kate lets out a low chuckle that vibrates all the way down Osgood’s spine, and the hands slip lower--_

She has softer, gentler fantasies. They’re nice. They turn her on, get her wet, get her started. But they can’t finish her. She can’t get off to sweet nothings, soothing caresses, tender embraces; she tries but halfway there she runs into a brick wall, and if she keeps trying to break through, the only thing on the other side is a cliff that she teeters on the edge of, with no tether of plausible deniability to save her. It’s all too frightening: too close to something a person might really want, to something a person might choose. 

It’s too close to admitting that she might want things, might choose things, and those things might not be what other people consider ‘good’—

It’s safer to imagine herself as nothing but an object to be used. Objects don’t have to choose. Objects don’t have to make decisions, label themselves, deal with the fallout. 

Safer to have a fantasy where all she has to do is obey—

_A cozy booth in the dark corner of a fancy restaurant, and she is sandwiched between Kate Stewart and Sarah Jane Smith, each of the older women with a firm hand on her knees, and as they smile politely to the waiter and discuss wine options their fingers wander further and further up her legs, her skirt rucking up around her thighs, her muscles twitching and skin shivering under their ministrations by the time the two women reach the thin cotton of her pants, slipping beneath the fabric to skim lightly over where she needs it most, she aches for it and she’s helpless, they’re in public, she can’t make a scene—_

_‘What a pretty present you’ve brought me, Kate.’_

_And her breath is coming fast because she knows how they’ll tease her, those light touches between her legs and those strong arms holding her fast between them, all through dinner and the cab ride home and she won’t be able to keep from moaning loud enough that the cab driver will know exactly what they’re doing to their dirty little whore, and they’ll tie her face down to their bed so no matter how hard she strains she can’t escape, guiding her head between Kate’s legs while Sarah Jane fucks her from behind, nails biting into her hip, Kate grinding against her mouth like she’s nothing but a toy to be used to make her come, and she’ll try not to come too, but the scent and the restraint and the strong hands inside her, and they’ll tell her she’s such a bad girl to like this, to get so wet and wanting and needy, and when they finally let her come it lights up her body like a firework, everything taut before she goes limp and boneless, and their knowing laughter as they wrap their arms around her, kisses on her collarbone and shoulder blades, warm arms holding her close and safe--_

No no no, no cuddling, she can’t, that doesn’t work, it’s too sweet, it’s too safe and therefore too dangerous, she needs to backtrack, she needs to switch—

_She hits the emergency button to start the industrial fans clearing the contaminant from the air, but it’s too late for Kate, who’s already gotten a face full of the pollen, and it’s too late for her as Kate stalks forward, a gleam in her eyes as her gaze trails slowly, lazily down Osgood’s body, and back up again; Osgood flushes everywhere that gaze falls, her legs weak as she stumbles backward, bumping into the edge of the counter. “Kate, please don’t do this, I know you don’t want to do this—“_

Masturbation Disclaimer Addendum #6: Obviously the genetic engineering and subsequent smuggling of Denari pollen for the purposes of sexual enslavement has had vast and terrible interplanetary consequences, and this fantasy is in no way an attempt to make light of the countless tragedies that have arisen as a direct result of said engineering and smuggling. I am not denying the wholly serious and appalling real-life applications of the aforementioned pollen, I am just temporarily suspending my knowledge of them in order to further my goal of reaching orgasm, and can’t that be good enough, I try and I try and I try but I’m not good enough and if I can’t be good enough then I can at least have this one thing, I can at least come alone in my bed and have this one moment of feeling fucking good before it all crashes down, I can at least--

_\--she raises her hands in supplication but Kate just pins her wrists behind her with the grip of one hand, silences her with a hard kiss, all teeth and tongue and hunger and heat, her free hand grasping and groping, avaricious, insatiable. “I do want this,” she hisses against Osgood’s bruised lips. “And I’m going to take it.”_

_She shoves Osgood to the floor, and then she is on top of her, the weight of her inescapable, her mouth ravenous against Osgood’s neck and her hands everywhere; Osgood can feel the heat of her burning through her clothes where she rocks herself against Osgood’s thigh, moaning in abandon, her cheeks flushed as she holds down her struggling prisoner—Osgood flails, not wanting to hurt Kate when she’s not in control of herself, but she’s not strong enough and there’s no escape, Kate’s hands yanking her trousers down roughly, a victorious smirk as she forces her legs apart, fucking her with three fingers, taking her on the cold lab floor even as Osgood begs her to stop, please stop, please stop—_

Osgood clenches around her own fingers, biting her lip to keep from making any noise as she finally, finally, _finally_ comes. 

#

She rolled over in her bed, trying to catch her breath as she stared at the ceiling. That was…that was something. She’d have to use that last scenario again soon. It had almost derailed her with the guilt but in the end it had pushed her over the edge _hard_. She’ d have to take advantage of that before the effectiveness faded, as it always did eventually.

 _Shouldn’t you feel guilty?_ a little voice at the back of her head wondered. _Shouldn’t you be ashamed?_ But she pushed it away. It would be back, of course, that was the thing about having an anxiety disorder, it never really left, never stopped telling you that you were dirty and wrong and terrible for everything you did and thought, and at this point she didn’t even know what was her greatest ignominy, the rape fantasies or the being gay or the thousand little disappointments she had subjected her parents to or being born in the first place.

But she was here, and she wasn’t going anywhere, and she had a job to do, so she pushed the voice away for what little while she could, got up and washed her hands, and went into her living room to work on the maths bit of Earth’s latest line of defense. When she finished that, she worked on an e-mail to her mum about the latest date she’d been set up on, and put together a salad for lunch tomorrow, and very determinedly did not think of Kate Stewart or any other woman at all.

They were just fantasies. They were nothing she really wanted.

She’s the good girl.


End file.
